


midnight, the stars, and you

by emlof



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21657496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emlof/pseuds/emlof
Summary: There’s a crackling noise, then the quiet hiss of speakers as a voice comes from— somewhere. Everywhere? He’s not entirely sure of the source, but it fills the cabin, the first sound in a long time that’s not of his own creation.“Mr. Blackwood.” It’s low, clipped, devoid of all inflection; Martin still gets the sense that the speaker is irritated with him, somehow.(Martin, on the Daedalus.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 49
Kudos: 521





	midnight, the stars, and you

Martin’s been on the Daedalus for three weeks when there’s a crackling noise, then the quiet hiss of speakers as a voice comes from— somewhere. Everywhere? He’s not entirely sure of the source, but it fills the cabin, the first sound in a long time that’s not of his own creation. 

“Mr. Blackwood.” It’s low, clipped, devoid of all inflection; Martin still gets the sense that the speaker is irritated with him, somehow. 

“H- hello?” he calls out, hesitant. Hallucinations already? It seems early, and it doesn’t _feel_ like what he thinks a hallucination should feel like, but. Well. Maybe his psychological profile wasn’t quite what Mr. Lukas had hoped for, after all. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be talking to me,” he continues, eyes flitting around the room, unsure where to look. 

“Oh, almost certainly not,” the voice says, dry and unconcerned. “However, the temperature inside your cabin has been steadily dropping for the past four hours, and it was beginning to seem as if perhaps you hadn’t noticed. This is meant to be a research mission, Mr. Blackwood. We can’t exactly conduct a study with you half-dead hundreds of kilometers above the stratosphere. So. Here I am, talking to you.” 

“Oh.” The back of Martin’s neck is beginning to heat. “Uh. Sorry?”

A heavy sigh from— whoever it is, on the other side of the speaker. 

“It’s _fine,_ Mr. Blackwood—”

“Martin,” he interjects before he can think better of it. “Er. If you don’t mind. It’s just, well, Mr. Blackwood is so terribly _formal,_ don’t you think?” 

A pause. 

“Very well. _Martin_ —” it sounds like an insult, somehow— “if you’re quite finished?” 

“Oh,” Martin says, taken aback, “uh. Yes? Yes, I suppose I am.” 

“Wonderful,” the voice drawls, and now Martin is certain he’s not imagining the irritation. “Then I’ll walk you through repairing the thermostat.” 

Martin feels a brief rush of relief that this is not, apparently, something he’s meant to know – or, if it is, nobody has decided to call him on it – but before he can linger too long on that thought, the voice is walking him through fixing the circuitry, peppering him with short, barked directions so quickly he can barely keep up. 

He tries to focus on the brisk, efficient instructions echoing through the cabin, tries to ignore how _nice_ it is to hear another person’s voice – even if that person does seem to think he’s incompetent. 

But he can’t ignore it entirely, and perhaps it’s inevitable that he gets caught up listening. The thing is—

Whoever it is on the comms, his voice is different when he’s relaying instructions. Focused, steady, still intense but less biting. 

Martin wonders about him, this stranger on the other end of the line. Is he watching Martin right now? What does he think of this strange, borderline-ethical operation they’re both involved in? How did _he_ end up being the one to talk Martin through all of this, how did his low, smooth voice end up being the one rising and falling in Martin’s ears? 

He gets so caught up in the wondering, in the end, that he stops listening to the instructions entirely, just floats there, bathing in the sound of another voice after so many weeks of quiet. 

“Martin.” There’s a distinct shift in tone, the voice is back to being clipped. “Is something the matter?”

“You have a nice voice,” Martin says, unthinking. 

Silence. Martin’s face heats so quickly he thinks the half-repaired thermostat must be able to detect it, is probably setting off an alarm on someone’s computer back on Earth.

“Sorry—sorry, that’s not what—I mean, you do, but that’s not— I’m sorry. I got distracted, obviously, it’s just. Well. I’ve been so _alone,_ I know that’s the point but I’ve just. _Been here,_ just me and my thoughts for _weeks_ and. It’s just. Nice to hear another person’s voice, I guess?” 

The cabin is quiet, the only sounds the faint hiss of the speaker and Martin’s breathing, quick and nervous and too-loud. 

“Sorry,” he says again, lamely, “I—I don’t know why I said that.” 

“It’s. It’s alright, Martin,” the voice says, sounding strangled. Martin can’t blame him. “I—well. I’ll just start back from where we left off, shall I?”

“Wait—” Martin blurts, before he can think better of it, “what’s. I mean. Would you tell me your name?” 

There’s another lengthy pause, then, “…Jon. My name is Jon.” 

The cabin is still cold; now that he’s aware of it Martin can feel the beginnings of numbness in his fingers. But something warm blooms in his chest all the same. 

“Thank you, Jon,” he says softly. “Really.” 

“It’s no trouble. I mean. It’s fine,” the voice – _Jon_ – mutters. He clears his throat, and it’s like a switch has been flipped; all of the awkwardness is instantly gone from Jon’s voice and it’s back to that vaguely put-upon professionalism. “Now, there should be a wire with blue coating, you’ll want to strip back some of the insulation…”

* * *

“Martin.” 

Martin yelps, and the book he’d been reading spins off towards the ceiling. It’s been—days? A week? Martin’s not sure, he’s rather lost track. 

“Jon? Is that you? What—oh, you can’t honestly tell me something else has broken, who built this ship?”

Jon hums distractedly. There’s a faint tapping sound in the background, like fingers drumming nervously against a table.

“No, nothing’s broken. I just. Well.” There’s a note in his voice that Martin can’t quite place – flustered, maybe, or just extremely uncomfortable. “I thought about what you said. About—about being alone. And thought… you might… want to talk?” 

It’s Martin’s turn to be stunned into silence, although he can feel a smile beginning to form on his face. 

Jon must not see it, though, or maybe doesn’t have access to a monitor, because his voice is strained when he says, “Or. Well, or not. Obviously you’re under no obligation to—” 

“No, no, sorry, I was just surprised,” Martin says, quietly pleased. There’s a nervous flipping in his stomach, excitement at the prospect of a real conversation – or maybe it’s just the lack of gravity as he drifts through the cabin. “That would be nice.” 

“Oh.” Jon sounds surprised, like he wasn’t expecting Martin to agree. “Alright, then.”

There’s an awkward silence – Jon may have decided to talk to him, but evidently that doesn’t mean he’s come prepared. Martin is struck with an impression, suddenly, that immediately becomes a conviction: Jon is very unused to small talk. 

“So,” he starts, when the silence is so long as to be uncomfortable, “how’s… the weather, back in London?” 

He cringes. Stupid, asking about the weather. As if Jon would want to talk about something so pedestrian, when he’s almost certainly breaking several sets of rules just talking to Martin for… some unknown reason. 

“Oh, same as ever,” Jon says almost immediately. The relief is plain in his voice, like he’s grateful Martin came up with something, _anything_ to fill the silence. “Gray. Dreary. Can you see the clouds, from all the way up there?” 

Martin pulls himself over to the window, looks down at the planet below. 

“Mm, not really,” he says, “just a lot of ocean, at the moment. Maybe in – oh, twenty minutes?” 

“Oh,” Jon says, “right. Of course. Stupid question.” And just like that, there’s another long silence stretching out before them, leaving Martin desperately wracking his brain for something – anything – to say that isn’t completely inane. 

The problem is, he’s gone so long without talking – without doing _anything,_ really – that he isn’t sure exactly what he’d say. As nice of a thought as it was, Jon is a stranger. They’ve literally never met – Martin doesn’t even know what he looks like. Martin doesn’t know anything about him, other than that he has a nice voice and seems to think Martin is an idiot.

He thinks Martin is an idiot, which makes it even more odd that he’d do something so kind, that he’d risk the experiment and probably his job for a conversation with a perfect stranger whose first impression had almost certainly been lackluster. 

And it doesn’t make for great conversation, saying things like _“I’ve just been sitting here, staring at the stars and thinking about how the last thing my mother said to me was that she’d like me to leave, please,”_ or _“I’ve read every book here at least twice and none of them were interesting enough to distract me from the fact that the only thing separating me from an empty void is a few centimeters of insulation.”_

Still. Martin prides himself on being nothing if not polite. Jon is trying to do – _something,_ here, it’s the least Martin can do to play along. 

“Listen, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, because I do, it’s just – are you sure this is alright?” Martin asks, after the silence has stretched on long enough that he’s starting to get uncomfortable. “I mean, I don’t think I’m meant to talk to anybody.”

Jon makes an irritated noise. “You can’t honestly tell me you’re that committed to this _’science,’_ Martin,” he huffs, “I’m sure you know as well as I do that there’s nothing groundbreaking about isolation research, even with the added novelty of space. Do you really want to be alone up there so badly?” 

“I’m—I’m not alone,” Martin protests, “Jan and Manuela are up here as well.” 

_And, apparently, you_ – although he doesn’t put voice to that particular thought. 

Jon scoffs. 

“Oh, please – you may as well be. Having them up there is the bare minimum of ethical research practices, and that’s assuming they’d even be able to help if – if something went wrong, which is a stretch. There’s a reason this is a private study, no IRB in the world would approve this sort of thing these days, which even you must know.”

Martin isn’t entirely sure what to say to that – isn’t even sure he understands what Jon is saying, really. 

“Jon? What – what are you implying?” 

“I’m not – I don’t know. But there are things about this mission that don’t add up, is all. I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.” It doesn’t sound like nothing, not with the way Jon’s voice has changed, getting louder, sharper somehow. More intense. It makes Martin nervous, makes him hang on to every word. “But – the emergency procedures – they’re _shockingly_ lax, the fact that you can’t communicate with anyone unless they enable a connection first – it seems—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I don’t know. A needless risk, perhaps.” 

Martin feels very cold, all of a sudden. 

“Martin? Are you – are you alright? I’m sorry, I know it all sounds a bit—I didn’t mean to—well. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m probably just being paranoid.” Jon’s voice is no less intense than before, although it’s lost some of the sharpness. 

“Sorry,” Martin stammers, “sorry, I’m alright. It’s just. I didn’t know that. About the radio.” 

_”Christ,”_ Jon’s voice is a staticky hiss. “That is _exactly_ what I mean – I don’t know if it’s just a lack of knowledge of proper protocol, or stupidity or something else, but—” 

The line goes abruptly silent.

“Jon?” Martin asks, tentative, heart pounding in his ears. 

Nothing. Martin’s breath is coming fast, he doesn’t know what to make of this new revelation, isn’t sure why Jon stopped talking so very abruptly, isn’t sure he _wants_ to know. 

Martin puts his head between his knees and tries to breathe slowly. 

Then the speakers crackle to life again, and—

“Sorry,” Jon says, barely a whisper, and all of Martin’s breath rushes out of him as if he’s been punched. “Sorry, I thought—I thought I heard someone. I’d better go. I’ll talk to you later.” 

And with that he’s gone, leaving Martin alone with his racing mind and his too-loud breaths, clinging to Jon’s last hurried words, hoping against hope that they were a promise.

* * *

Jon was right, of course. Martin doesn’t need to look all that much deeper to know that, suspects that it’s only willful ignorance that’s kept him oblivious to it so far. He investigates his cabin more thoroughly, finds that the cameras in every corner aren’t connected to anything, that the emergency code for the communications system fails every time, that he never had a hope of getting through to anyone, not Manuela or Jan or _anyone—_

He can’t bring himself to try the door. Surely they’d left him with one way out, they _must_ have – and if they hadn’t, well. He’d rather not know. 

It’s days before he comes down fully from the jittery adrenaline high of the call, and even longer before he can convince himself that it’s fine, actually, that _he’s_ fine, totally fine, that there’s nothing for it and he’ll just have to wait it out.

* * *

Even if he _has_ convinced himself, mostly, that things are alright – or at least no worse than before – Martin is anxious. He’s anxious for Jon, anxious to _hear something_ , anything, good or bad. So he notices the hiss of the speakers immediately, even opens his mouth to call out to Jon, but something stops him – what if it’s someone else, what if he responds and gives them away? 

But it’s Jon’s voice that crackles through the speakers, low and tentative.

“Martin? Are you there?” 

Martin lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“Jon – hi,” he says, suddenly overwhelmed. “Hi, I mean. Yes, I’m here.” 

“Good – good,” Jon says, and then falls silent. “Are you… alright?” 

Martin can’t help his nervous chuckle. “Not really? I mean. There’s nothing I can do about it, but. I think I might be trapped? Up here?” There’s a rushing in his ears. It’s the first time he’s said it aloud, it makes it feel more real, somehow. “I mean, I don’t know why they’ve gone through such an elaborate setup but it can’t exactly be _good,_ can it? I mean, I’m probably going to die up here, and—” 

“Stay with me, Martin,” Jon’s voice cuts into his increasingly frantic monologue. “What do you mean, elaborate setup?” 

“I mean that you were right – that there’s something off about this place, and I don’t think it’s a design flaw, or a mistake, I think it’s _on purpose_ —”

He explains everything he’s found; the cameras, the code, the way he’d pounded on the door for hours, just to see what would happen and that the answer was _nothing._

Jon curses under his breath. 

“Alright. Alright,” he says, as if he can convince himself things are fine if he just repeats it enough. “I can’t – is there anything I can do? To help?” 

“Could you just – talk? Tell me, I don’t know. Something – the news? I just – there’s nothing I can do, and nothing you can do, so can you just. Talk to me. About something else.” 

“Right,” Jon says, suddenly sounding more nervous than he has their entire conversation. Martin remembers, abruptly, how poorly their previous attempt at small talk had gone, and can’t help the tiny, almost-hysterical laugh that bubbles up from his chest. 

“What – are you alright?” There’s real concern in Jon’s voice, and Martin can’t help but feel a little guilty for laughing. 

“No – I mean, yes, sorry, I’m alright, just – I’ve just told you all this weird stuff and you’re worried about a bit of _small talk,_ ” he says, trying not to laugh too obviously. 

The other end of the line is quiet, for just a moment, and then Jon huffs – Martin is suddenly struck with the image of him shaking his head in disbelief – and gives a heavy sigh. 

“Fine,” he says, and it’s so close to the irritable voice that first greeted him that it nearly sends Martin into another fit of laughter. “I suppose we can… _chat._ ”

Something in the air breaks after that, a release of tension – and they do chat, in the end. Once he’s gotten over the initial discomfort of talking with someone who is still, largely, a stranger, Jon is a fine conversationalist. And once he gets going on a topic it’s easy for Martin to only half-listen, just let the sound of Jon’s voice wash over him the way it had that first conversation, just listen to the rise and fall of it as Jon rants about the declining standards of some series he’d loved, years ago – “I mean, honestly, they’ll let anyone on as long as they have something to say about space – they’d probably even let _you_ on. Erm. No offense,” he catches, although Martin doesn’t have the energy to be offended. 

It’s almost enough to keep his breathing even, to distract him from whatever it is, exactly, that they’ve stumbled on. 

“I’ll talk to you soon,” Jon says, and Martin believes him.

* * *

They talk – well, Martin’s not sure how often they talk, exactly. But it’s enough that he starts to think that maybe he _will_ be alright, enough that things almost feel normal. 

He learns about Jon in fits and starts, in between crossword clues and arguments about the value of spiders to an ecosystem – that he reads an honest-to-goodness newspaper every morning, cover to cover, and has shared custody of his best friend’s cat, and thought that if he worked in space industries enough he might eventually get over his fear of it. He learns that Jon takes his coffee with a frankly disgusting amount of sugar, and that he taps at the side of his headset when he’s nervous, the thump-thump-thump of it echoing through the cabin. 

And he tells Jon about himself, too, possibly more than Jon wants to know, but it’s such a _relief_ to be able to talk to someone, so it’s inevitable that it comes up, really: 

“Mm... three down; two, in Warsaw.” 

“Oh, I know this one – er, I think I do. Dwa?” 

“Quite,” Jon hums, pleased; there’s a scratching sound as he pencils it in. “Glad to see your Polish is better than your Latin.” 

He’s teasing, probably, but Martin feels the need to defend himself all the same. “Listen, that was _one time_ – and you said yourself, it was a Saturday puzzle. Not all of us have your posh education.”

“I’m only teasing, Martin. You’re a great help, ‘posh education’ or no,” Jon says, voice warm, and suddenly Martin finds himself blurting out: 

“I really don’t have one. A posh education, I mean.” He resists the urge to smack a hand to his forehead, but only barely. 

“Yes, Martin, I know – but you’re an excellent crossword assistant all the same.” Something pleased flutters in Martin’s chest at the praise. But still, he feels the truth pressing heavy against his ribs and suddenly _needs_ Jon to know.

“I mean – I don’t have _any_ education, at least not the right kind for a job like this.” 

“I don’t understand.” It’s not a question, but Jon’s voice is hesitant, uncertain. 

“I mean I lied on my CV,” Martin says, waiting for the fallout he’s certain is coming, waiting for Jon to berate him, or for the speakers to click off. “Well. Exaggerated, at least.” 

He holds his breath. 

“Oh,” Jon says, “alright. That. Explains some things, I suppose.” A pause. “Seven across, third letter ‘o;’ elegy on the death of – eugh, _Keats_ —” 

“Adonais,” Martin answers unthinkingly, then, “wait, is that _it?_ ” 

“Oh, that fits. Very good, Martin – and is _what_ it?”

“I don’t know, I just. Thought you’d have more to say. That you might want to – scold me, or something.” It sounds ridiculous, now that he’s said it, but Martin can’t do anything to take the words back. 

There’s another pause, the sound of Jon’s fingers drumming against his headset. Martin wonders, not for the first time, what he looks like, sat there reading the crossword aloud – if he’s leaned back, legs crossed, or sat perfectly straight, or hunched over his desk, fingers wound through his hair as he thinks. He wonders if Jon chews on his pens.

“I might have, if I’d known earlier.” Jon’s voice is thoughtful when it breaks through Martin’s rapidly sidetracked train of thought. “But – I don’t know. There’s not much either of us can do about it, now.”

Martin can’t quite believe it, that he’s getting off so easily – and then shakes his head at the idea that _not getting yelled at by Jon_ is getting off easy, when he’s for all intents and purposes _stranded in space._

“Besides, I somehow doubt it’s likely to be an issue for our employer,” Jon says, voice grim. 

“No – no, I guess not,” Martin says, because – well, there’s really nothing else he _can_ say.

More silence. Martin wonders if all of Jon’s conversations are quite so spaced out, or if the two of them just have a special gift for it. 

“Sorry,” Jon mutters, “I promised not to bring it up, didn’t I?” 

“It’s alright. Besides, technically I’m the one who brought it up? So I think you get a pass.”

“I suppose.” This time the pause is the kind Martin has learned means Jon’s weighing his next words carefully. “Well. I have to admit, I’m – glad? Well, that’s not quite right. You could have been spared this, and I’m not glad you have to go through it. But – I’m glad that when you needed help, that first time. That I could help.” 

He trails off, sounding intensely uncomfortable. Martin understands his meaning all the same, and it sparks that same pleased warmth all over again. 

“Yeah, Jon,” he says, quietly. The fluttering in his chest has moved up to his throat, he hopes the sudden breathiness in his voice isn’t too noticeable over the comms. “I’m glad we met, too.”

He lets it hover in the air, for just a moment, before he he can think too much about the honesty and the genuine fondness in his voice, so obvious it's probably made Jon uncomfortable, and suddenly needs to fill the silence.

“Anyways – what do you have against Keats? Don’t think I missed that noise you made—”

* * *

He’s working on a poem the next time that crackling sound comes through. He’s only got so many notebooks, so Martin’s taken to sounding out the poems in his head, saying the trickiest bits aloud to get the feel of them. It helps him get the sound of things right, he’s found, and it’s not as if he has anything better to do. 

Still, he’s absorbed in his project, doesn’t notice the hiss of the speakers turning themselves on. 

“Martin. You’ve been muttering to yourself,” Jon says, and Martin doesn’t flinch but it’s a near thing. 

“Jon!” he scolds, “don’t _do_ that! And anyways, I’m just. I was just— I’m not doing anything. Nothing important, anyways. And – wait. You _heard_ that? And you didn’t think to _say something?”_

It takes a moment for him to identify the sound crackling through the cabin, until he realizes that it’s laughter – Jon is _laughing,_ never mind that it’s at him; the sound still sends a rush of warmth through him, at how impossibly fond he is of this man he’s never met, how grateful he is for his company. 

And oh, Martin realizes, all the air rushing out of him: he wants to know Jon, to _really_ know him. They're still near-strangers, it's a daft thought. For all their furtive, late-night conversations, they still don't know each other all that well. But they _could,_ he thinks. He wants to find out.

* * *

“What time is it?” Martin asks sleepily, “my clock floated off somewhere.” 

Jon hums, low and rumbling. “Couldn’t say. Two-ish, I think? Early enough that no-one will be here for a few hours, at least.”

“Two—“ Martin tries not to sound too disbelieving. “Jon, what are you doing here talking to me? You ought to be— out, somewhere, or sleeping at least, not keeping me company.” 

“Martin Blackwood, are you honestly fussing at me from _space?_ ”

“Well, clearly _someone_ needs to – are you eating your vegetables? Drinking enough water? Honestly, Jon, I don’t even want to imagine the shadows under your eyes, you probably look as much a mess as me at this point,” he teases.

Jon scoffs. “Oh, please. I can hardly imagine you looking a mess. I’ve seen your staff photo, I’ve never seen a more crisply ironed shirt.” 

“That was when I was still trying to pretend I was even remotely qualified for any of this – you should see me now that I’ve accepted my incompetence. And anyways, that doesn’t seem fair,” Martin says, laughing a little bit, “that you know what I look like, but I’ve never once seen your face.”

“That’s hardly my fault,” Jon sniffs. “You’ll just have to see it when you get back, I suppose.”

When he gets back. Martin still isn’t sure when that is, exactly – and Jon hasn’t made any headway in finding out. It’s frustrating him, Martin can tell in the way he sighs, long and deep, the kind of sigh that brings to mind someone pinching the bridge of their nose and scrubbing a hand through their hair. 

“Martin,” Jon starts, unusually hesitant, “when you get back. Would you— maybe—“ 

He breaks off, a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. 

“Would I..?” Martin leads, heart in his throat. 

A pause. 

“Never mind,” Jon says, “not important.”

He makes some hasty excuse and signs off, after that, but Martin finds he doesn’t mind so much. There’s still a pleased, surprised warmth curling in his chest — _you’ll just have to see me when you get back,_ Jon had said, like it was nothing, like it was a given. Like maybe he wants what Martin wants, too.

When he gets back. He can pay attention to that warmth, that tiny blooming, when he gets back.

* * *

“You know,” Martin says into the empty air, talking to himself — it’s late again, he thinks. The hiss of the comms tells him they’re still connected, but Jon hasn’t said anything in ages, has quite possibly fallen asleep. Still: “even though this is an experiment into isolation, I thought— well, it’s going to sound daft. But I thought I might see something, you know? Like— something else, something out there. But I don’t think that anymore. We’re all alone, I think. And I – I’m all alone.” 

He tries to pretend that his voice doesn’t shake as he says it and the full force of the words hits him all at once. It’s true, he _knows_ it. Jon’s good company, when he’s around, but at the end of the day – it’s just Martin, up here. He can feel his breathing quicken. 

“Glad to know you put _so_ much stock in our conversations,” comes a dry voice, and Martin tries not to be too obviously relieved at the sound. 

“Jon! I—sorry. It’s just. been getting to me, I suppose? Sorry. I do appreciate them, you know. Appreciate you.” 

“I’m only joking, Martin,” Jon says. “I can only imagine what it’s like. No, that’s not right. I can’t even imagine.”

A long silence.

“You know – you know I think you’re terribly brave.”

“Not really,” Martin says with a nervous chuckle, ignoring the way his whole body goes warm at Jon’s praise. “It’s nice of you to say so, though.”

“No, I mean it. I don’t know how you do it,” Jon insists. “Being alone up there – it sounds like hell, frankly.” 

“It’s not so bad,” Martin says, “just boring. Although that’s mostly because you’ve decided to go rogue, I expect. You’re right, it’d be awful otherwise, especially now that I know—well. Now that I know. It _was_ awful, those first three weeks.”

Jon just makes a disgruntled noise. “Still. Even if it is _not so bad_ – which I don’t believe for a second, by the way – why did you accept this job in the first place?” 

“You know, I’m not really sure?” Martin frowns, thinking. “I always wanted to go to space. And even if I exaggerated a bit on my CV I really did go through training — the beginnings of it, at least. It would’ve put me on track to go to space, _legitimately,_ not through whatever poor excuse for science this is. But. Well. Mum got sick — _really_ sick. She’d never been well, not really, but this was properly bad, and it was clear that. Well. That she wasn’t coming back, not from this.” 

He stops, catches his breath, throat unexpectedly rough. He’s started picking at the edges of his sleeves, pulling at a loose thread with his fingernails. He clasps his hands in front of himself, trying absently to keep them still. Jon just allows him the space, doesn’t say anything, but Martin can hear his breath on the other end of the line, soft and slow. He tries to match his own — rapid, breathy, high in his chest — to Jon’s, until he feels a little less on the verge of hyperventilating.

“I. Dropped out. She told me I was an idiot, and she was probably right. But I couldn’t leave her alone, not at the end, even if she didn’t want me there and told me as much. And when she died it was like I didn’t have anything left to stay for? All my mates from my program got jobs and moved on and it was – they were all advancing, _doing something_ with their lives and I was just. Stuck. And then I got a call, and it was Mr. Lukas, and he’d seen my resume and thought I would be a good fit, and I thought – well. Why not? It wasn’t as if anyone was going to miss me.”

He takes a few raspy breaths, eyes suddenly very hot. He’s said too much, let his mouth run the way he always does and everything’s spilled over, a tidal wave of overwhelming honesty that nobody wanted to hear. 

“I’m sorry. I’m. I didn’t — that was a lot. I’ve never told that to anybody before, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say so much.” As if he could claw it back into himself, take everything back with one awkward, stammering sentence. 

“It’s alright, Martin, that’s—“ 

“Very touching, really,” an unfamiliar voice breaks in. 

Everything goes very quiet, and still. Martin’s blood goes very cold.

“Ah,” Jon says, after a long pause. “Hello, Mr. Lukas.” 

“Indeed.” the voice says — Conrad Lukas’ voice, cold and distant and awful as it’s ever been. “Mr. Sims, I do believe we need to talk. Why don’t you come up to my office, hm? No rush — whenever is convenient for you.” 

There’s a long moment of silence. Martin wishes he could see — _something,_ he’s not sure what. Wishes he could intervene, step between Jon and Conrad and protect him, somehow, from the fallout of this, this which is all Martin’s fault, in the end. But he can’t. 

All he can do is listen to the awful, stretching silence, the shuddering breath, staticky across the line, the way Jon’s voice is almost but not quite even as he says, “A-alright. Yes. I’ll just. Be up in a moment, then.” 

“Wonderful,” Conrad says, and he almost sounds pleased. 

There’s another long, staticky silence. 

The line goes dead.

* * *

And that’s the end of it, Martin assumes, something cold and heavy settling in his stomach. 

He can’t stop thinking about all of the almosts, all the could-have-beens, the what-ifs. His mind keeps circling back to a half-asked question, dying on Jon’s lips before it could reach him up in the thermosphere. 

They could have— 

But now Jon’s probably lost his job, because of Martin. They’ve no way of finding one another, when he gets back down. As if Jon would want to see him, anyways. 

They could have. But they won’t.

* * *

But then— 

The speakers hiss. 

“Martin – God, that was – are you alright?” 

“ _Jon,_ what, how – I think I should be asking you the same thing, what _happened?_ How are you even here?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Jon says, stiff. 

Martin starts to argue, but Jon cuts him off. “I’m – I’ll be fine.”

“Jon, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, if they catch us talking again, will you—" 

“I already said – doesn’t matter. It’s what I want to do,” Jon says carefully, and his voice carries the sound of an awkward shrug. “And besides, I’m not— well. I’m already not exactly supposed to be here. At any rate, I thought. I could read to you.”

“Oh,” Martin says, surprise knocking the wind out of him for a minute. Then – “wait a minute, Jon, did you _break in?_ You?” 

“I’m just as capable of it as anyone else,” Jon sniffs. “Now, do you want me to read or not?” 

“Right. Alright. That would be - that would be nice.” 

Martin only half-hears, when Jon reads him the title. But exactly what Jon is reading isn’t important, Martin decides – the words slip out of his ears almost instantly, anyways. What he does absorb, soaks up like a sponge, is the sound of Jon’s voice, low and rolling and maybe a little fond as he yawns around words and mutters complaints about the flowery language when he’s finished. 

The stars are vast, and Martin can see the world below from his position strapped into his bed. He can’t quite make out the continent they’re over, but wherever it is it must be night; there are little clusters of lights illuminating the darkness of the ground. He wonders if any of them are Jon’s, imagines he could find it, if he just looked hard enough. 

“Goodnight, Martin,” Jon says, just as he falls asleep, and it sounds like goodbye.

* * *

The comms stay off, after that, no more clicks or staticky sounds, and certainly no more Jon. 

The silence is worse than Martin remembers. It’s as if having Jon there, the regular, steady presence, or at least the potential for one, had made him soft, made him _forget_ what was waiting just beyond the warm hiss of the comms. He feels the ache of his absence even more keenly, now that he knows he’s lost something.

He writes, and it helps for a while — but he can’t stop thinking about Jon’s voice, teasing as he asked what Martin was working on, pestered him to read a bit aloud. Can’t stop thinking about how _lonely_ he is, without Jon, and how lonely he’ll be when he gets back to the surface. He wonders, briefly, if maybe it’s for the best that he just stays up there, alone in space, where eventually no one will know to miss him – but then, that’s too melodramatic even for him. 

He reads, for a while, finds a volume of Keats that he’d somehow missed, the first time he was going through the tiny supply of books he’d been given. But then he reaches a line about _“the blaze, the splendor and the symmetry / I cannot see—but darkness, death and darkness”—_

He has to stop reading after that. A little too close to home. 

He very pointedly doesn’t look out the window.

* * *

He isn’t sure how long it’s been, when he’s struck with the absolute conviction that if he doesn’t leave the cabin _right now_ he’ll die. 

He tries the door. 

He tries the door, even though he knows with a sinking feeling in his chest even before he puts in the code that it won’t work. 

It doesn’t work – worse, no matter how many times he enters the numbers the screen only ever reads back the same thing: _YOU WERE ALWAYS ALONE._

He screams until his throat is aching, pounds at the door until his fists are bruised and the skin of his knuckles is cracked.

There’s no answer, as he knew there wouldn’t be. Eventually tires himself out and just— drifts. 

He thinks he’s in silence, just spinning there, absently, slowly rotating from the lingering momentum of his last movement, which could have been hours ago. he thinks he’s in silence, until some whirring machine he hadn’t even been _aware of_ clicks off. 

The cabin is silent. Really, truly silent. 

It’s then that he starts to cry.

* * *

He drifts and drifts and looks at the stars, winking out one by one across the universe. Is it really happening? Entire galaxies being obliterated light years away, the cause moving slowly towards the solar system, towards _him?_ Or is he hallucinating? That was supposed to start after six weeks; he doesn’t know how long it’s been. Will he still be alive when his own lights go out? 

He straps himself to the bed, loneliness cutting so deep it’s all he can do not to curl up from the pain of it.

All of the stars go out. The lights in his cabin after that. Everything blinking off, even the sun, until the only source of light left is coming from the Earth below. He wonders, absently, if Jon was afraid when the sun died.

* * *

The sun’s gone out and he is screaming and there is no one to hear him and he is so, so afraid.

* * *

His awareness comes and goes in waves. Everything feels very far away. He’s alone, but it doesn’t hurt so much, anymore. 

He can see lights on the planet below him, some city he doesn’t know the name of. He thinks there was someone he was worried for, down there. He can’t remember. He’s very cold. He doesn’t know how long it’s been.

* * *

His throat hurts. 

His throat hurts, and there’s a noise echoing around his tiny, dark room, something awful and pained and terrifying—

Terrified? 

He takes a breath. The noise stops abruptly, and. Oh. It was coming from him, he realizes absently as the ringing in his ears dies down. 

He tries to calm his racing pulse, to get back to that almost-comfortable distance, the all-encompassing absence he’s been drifting in and out of.

He’s on the verge of reaching it, being lost to that great terrible nothingness when there’s something — a noise— at the edge of his consciousness. a noise. A _noise_ — 

He hasn’t heard a noise that he didn’t make in – who knows how long. Days? Weeks? Years?

A noise. A voice.

“—tin! Martin!” The voice is calling, but it sounds far away, and like it’s coming through a heavy, muffling fog.

Whoever is on the other end sounds familiar, distant as they are. Another hallucination, probably. It’s been a long time since he had one of those. He’s not sure if it’s a relief or something he should be worried about. It’s calling for someone – for him? Martin. That’s him. 

He tries to focus, to pinpoint the sound, anchor himself on it. 

They’re still calling his name, a little frantic. Martin tries to reach for them but it’s as if he’s swimming through the sound, struggling against some invisible current. Everything is slow, and heavy. 

“Martin! Are you there? Can you hear me?”

He can hear them, he wants to say, but he’s still underwater, still swimming towards a light above the surface a hundred miles away. Except – he’s not. He’s floating, weightless, and he can breathe, which means—

“I— I can hear you,” Martin says, faintly. His lips feel numb, it’s a struggle to form the words. “I _hear_ you, I. Jon?”

“Martin,” Jon says, and Martin thinks his voice might be shaking. “You’ve been— it’s been so long, I thought— well. never mind what I thought.”

“I— Jon— there was _nothing,_ I’ve been so alone, I thought—” He’s babbling, he realizes, and forces himself to stop, but it can’t stop the way his mind is suddenly racing. He’d really thought he was going to die. The thought crashes over him, a rush of icy water, and he realizes that he still might, that there’s nothing he can do to leave, that he’s trapped— 

“Martin— Martin! Listen to me,” Jon calls, and Martin realizes he’s been speaking aloud after all. “I’m going to get you out of there. I don’t know how, yet, but – I will. I promise.” 

Martin believes him. It’s the last thing he thinks as his breathing comes too fast and he can feel the familiar swell of panic overtaking him and his vision starts to go black around the edges. He hopes he says that aloud, too.

* * *

Everything goes very blurry, after that. The cabin is still dark and quiet and cold, Martin can still only see the stars some of the time – but he clings, desperate, to Jon’s voice, tries to burn it into his memory, repeats it to himself whenever he feels that cold fog of loneliness creeping into his lungs, _I promise, I promise, I promise._

* * *

Martin wakes up slowly.

He knows where he is without opening his eyes – you don’t forget the smell of a hospital, not when you’ve spent so much time in and out of them – but he doesn’t _understand,_ can’t quite track how he might have ended up here.

When he does open his eyes, finally, there’s a strange man next to his bedside, slumped over as if asleep, clutching his hand. 

Martin wonders, stupidly, for a moment, if this person has the wrong room, if they’ve perhaps confused him with someone else. He opens his mouth to ask as much, but all that comes out is a weak cough.

The stranger holding his hand jerks upright, eyes wide. “Martin—you’re awake, thank god,” he says, and Martin recognizes his voice. Martin recognizes his voice and everything comes rushing back and Jon is squeezing Martin’s hand ever so gently, warm and reassuring and _there, really there,_ and Martin pitches forward, breathing hard, an embarrassing prickling behind his eyes. 

“I’ve got you,” Jon says, rubbing his back slowly, carefully, and it just makes Martin cry harder; great, heaving sobs. He’s an ugly crier, he _knows_ he is, but Jon doesn’t move away even when Martin’s breath turns to choking gasps and he thinks he might throw up. He just shifts closer, letting Martin lean his forehead into the crook of Jon’s neck as if he could hide him from the world a moment longer. Every point of contact burns after so long – how long has it been? He doesn’t want to know – but he doesn’t pull away.

They sit that way for a long time, Jon keeping up a steady stream of reassurances, meaningless words that mean everything.

“Not exactly the first impression I’d hoped for,” Martin murmurs when his breathing is under control again, voice watery. “I’ve made a mess of your sweater.”

“It’s alright, Martin. You’re alright – I’m not going anywhere,” Jon says, and he doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> idk idk i got a little carried away.. thanks for reading :') 
> 
> title is a song from deerhoof


End file.
